
Though I am tempted to index this chronicle of
sayings and poignant passages to preclude you from having to scroll too much, I find that
too restrictive feeling for this Infinity Angel experience, too utilitarian. So, just
scroll, read and enjoy. There is no purpose here but inspiration. Feel free to copy any of
these and share them with friends. I have used some for personal notes, others for women's
retreats. Ingesting short lovely thoughts is like taking a mini-vacation. Bon Voyage!
To live content with small
means;
to seek elegance rather than luxury,
and refinement rather than fashion;
to be worthy, not respectable,
and wealthy, not rich;
to listen to stars and birds, babes and sages
with open heart;
to study hard;
to think quietly, act frankly, talk gently,
await occasions, hurry never;
in a word, to let the spiritual,
unbidden and unconscious,
grow up through the common ---
this is my symphony.

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I invite you to enter for a
moment
into Sacred Time and Space,
into a way of seeing that is broad and spacious.
See this Day, from the time you arose this morning
until you sleep this evening, as one Ceremony,
divided into small and familiar rituals,
your Heart as the Altar.
You, part of the Cycles of Light and Darkness.
Now begin to see your Life,
from the moment of your Conception
until the time of your Death
as one long, continuous Ceremony,
filled with many rituals,
some familiar, some unknown and challenging.
Your Home and all Your Relations, the Altar.
You, part of many Seasons and Cycles.
Now see this Ceremony of your Life
as part of a much larger Ceremony that extends
Seven Generations into the Past and Seven into the Future,
made up of many Births and Deaths.
This beautiful spinning Earth the Altar.
You, part of the great Ebb and Flow.
Now, if You will, imagine this larger
Ceremony
to be but one part of a Ceremony so grand,
so magnificent as to be hardly comprehensible,
a great, vast Ceremonial Circle, rich and vibrant
with millions upon millions of swirling
Circles of Dancing Light,
and You, one of those Dancing Circles,
a Dancer on the Altar that is the Universe,
where Time is Eternal.
May You Dance In Beauty.
from circle wisdom - by sedonia cahill

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Learn to get in touch with
the silence within yourself and know
that everything in this life has a purpose.

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Slow down and enjoy life.
Its not only the scenery you miss by going too fast -- you also miss the sense of
where you are going and why.

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The words that enlighten the
soul are more precious than jewels.

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There is a vitality, a life
force, an energy, a quickening, that is translated through you into action, and because
there is only one of you in all time, this expression is unique. And if you block it, it
will never exist through any other medium and will be lost.

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Always leave enough time in
your life to do something that makes you happy, satisfied, even joyous. That has more of
an effect on economic well-being than any other single factor.

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Trust that still, small
voice that says, This might work and Ill try it.

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You have the power in the
present moment to change limiting beliefs and consciously plant the seeds for the future
of your choosing. As you change your mind, you change your experience.

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It would be good to find
some quiet inlet where the waters were still enough for reflection, where one might sense
the joy of the moment, rather than plan breathlessly for a dozen mingled treats in the
future.

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When we believe there is
no time, that is what we experience. As all of us know, time is a marvelously
malleable commodity. A day can go by in a flash or stretch out endlessly. We like to
pretend that the tempo of our time is not our own; however, to a large extent it can be.

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Flowers, sesame-seed, bowls
of fresh water, a tuft of kusha grass,
all this altar paraphernalia is not needed
by someone who takes the teacher's words in and honestly lives them.
Full of longing in meditation, one sinks into a joy that is free of any impulse to act,
and will never enter a human birth again.

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This life, you must
know as the tiny splash of a raindrop.
A thing of beauty that disappears as it comes into being.
Therefore, set your goal. Make use of every day and every night.

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Dance as though no one is
watching you,
Love as though you have never been hurt before,
Sing as though no one can hear you,
Live as though heaven is on earth.

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People say that what
were all seeking in life is a meaningful life. I dont think
thats what were seeking. I think that what were seeking is an experience
of being alive, so that our life experience on the purely physical plane will have
resonances within our innermost being and reality, so that we actually
feel the rapture of being alive.

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Within each of us, there is
a silence, a silence as vast as the universe.
We are afraid of it. And we long for it. And when we experience that silence,
we remember who we are.

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In our culture, time can
seem like an enemy:
it chews up and spits us out with appalling ease.
But the monastic perspective welcomes time as a gift
from God, and seeks to put it to good use rather
than allowing us to be used up by it.
According to a friend educated by the Benedictines,
You never really finish anything in life, and while thats
humbling and frustrating...its alright.

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Soulful Passages Unpublished Writers top

I will begin with a few of the poems and essays that I have
written and encourage other unsung poets to submit
their work. If this work fits in with the feeling and philosophy of this site, I will
enthusiastically add it to this link. I always find it interesting that marketing writers
are some of the best creative writers, but often forget how to let the spirit flow. I
wrote my first poem in 30 years after attending a seminar with Julia Cameron several years
ago. If you haven't tried in a while, I encourage you to do it now.
Remember...everything you need is already
here.
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Meditation on the Back of a
Grocery Receipt
I empty the vessel in its entirety
In one slow, smooth breath.
Like pouring out water,
I let the thoughts go into the abyss.
I know not where they go,
But rather that the content of this container
Is now as it was in the beginning,
Closer to the source,
Ready to accept a new filling.
I pause, wanting to stay here in nothingness,
Silently revelling in the depth of this instant.
This is the true frequency,
The place where I live.
Cross talk and static charge the time of my life,
True enjoyment is not in things or doing...
It is in this momentous patch of nothingness.
Stay...here...
This utterance in my brain is enough to break the silence.
The calm is now panic.
But I love it here. Come back.
All is lost again.
by Kelly McCoy
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Magnetic Distraction That unspoken bond
Between parent and child
Which starts between a woman's legs
And ends up in her heart
Cannot be dissolved.
It happens again and again
When husbands betray their wives
For their mothers,
Or wives for dad,
Not meaning to.
"I'm going home."
No brick and morter,
No pristine clapboards,
No gingerbread cornice
Can take the place
Of the parent/child fortress.
Truth is so thick,
Like a haze on a summer night
To cloud one's clear path
To where he thought he was going.
"Are you going home, John,
Or going away when you fly to the Cape?"
Asked the little man who ran the convenience mart
Within the Mobil.
"I'm a New Yorker, Freddie,
So home is everywhere,"
He might've replied with an easy smile
And that twinkle in his eye.
Somwhere,
Where a soul lives inside,
He knew he was going home.
We all do.
"Where is home?" they ask me.
"I have none," I think inside my head,
But never say it.
Instead I kick into the spiel about moving around.
"No more than three years in one place...
Chicago, Florida, New Jersey...
Dad was in retailing."
My childhood home was Mom and Dad.
When they "go,"
Someone will have burned down the homestead.
Nothing is permanent,
Except the bond.
You can always follow that home.
He did that night,
Right into the cold, choppy waters
Off an island they mistakenly charted as "home."
Back to the flowing fluid
Filled with Mom and Dad.
A birthing once again,
With them waiting,
Arms wide open.
Meanwhile back in Maine,
I got the call.
My mother's sister has succumbed
To the mother-son bond.
She's collapsd in the kitchen,
Never to be revived.
It was that momentary magnetic distraction,
Her bond with a son who moved on last year,
Or was it the year before?
Time doesn't matter
It's not real.
Not like the imaginary umbilicus
That tethers our soul through eternity.
She returned home,
Forsaking my uncle,
As her son had left his wife for the ethers,
In preparation for my aunt's arrival.
The agony of those left behind
Hangs in the haze.
In a cloudy world where everyone
Thinks they have a home.
My children call to me,
Something about juice
Or friends coming over.
My tether now stretches in two directions.
My compass struggles to find my true north.
I am both child and parent.
That is where home is.
But where?
I prepare for the burning of the homestead,
I smile and count the freckles
On my daughter's impish face.
The thread that weaves a tapestry we call time,
The umbilicus can never be cut.
The parent. The child.
The magnetic distraction
Will forever keep us off course.
by Kelly McCoy
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Slipping Away
Where is she? Where did they take my mother? Why cant
she remember what I said yesterday...or a minute ago? And why does it bother me so much?
Thats the key. Whats the lesson shes
teaching me by living half of her septuagenarian life here and half somewhere that I
cannot perceive? Im the one professing to all who lend an ear that everything
happens for a reason. Everything transpires to teach us something, to help us evolve as
spiritual beings. And yet my stubborn humanity hates this, resists this slipping away more
than just about anything I can imagine.
Sometimes in the middle of a fade, when Im uttering
the answer to the same question for the fourth time in five minutes, I think,
Whats the point? Is she alive? Who is this shell, this sieve, who cannot grip
a word I say?
Surely this is not my mother, the woman who knows
everything about me, except for those two or three or eight stories in college that I
never shared. She knows that she and Dad were the singular proponents of my new school in
Hindsdale, Illinois, in 1969, and that we knocked on every door in a 30-building apartment
complex to get people out to vote. But when I recount the story with that dont
you remember? inflection at the end, waiting for her to chime in her humorous
details, she looks perplexed. The synapses arent firing in that part of her brain
today. Maybe tomorrow. Or maybe never again.
She knows that my husband and children and I find her baby
back ribs synonymous with summer. She always finds the best ribs at the best price at
Market Basket and pre-cooks them on top of the stove (that smelly job). She wants to make
sure that when Jim bastes them with tangy Open Pit on the grill, the meat is
ready to fall off the bone into your mouth. Thats her thing. So, why is she calling
me asking what we usually cook on the grill? Why does she have no idea where to buy the
ribs? These are her rituals, the meticulous details of her life that are washing away
before my eyes.
Baby back ribs, I say to her, trying not to
make my tone too annoyed or astonished. You usually get them at the Market Basket in
Ashland for $1.99 or $2.99 a pound, remember? I want to cry. I want to scream. Over
the damn ribs.
This is absurd, I tell myself. Why am I
so upset? Why does this disturb me at my core? I wonder out loud to my husband if
Im upset because she seems foreign to me. Where did they put my mother?,
I ask half comically, half hysterically. I feel as if the aliens landed in her backyard,
took the woman who gave birth to me and left in her place some hollow clone, programmed
with just enough information to keep us guessing.
Sometimes I wonder if she is ever so slowly crossing over
the veil. Perhaps Im witnessing her spiritual transmutation from human world to
other world, that shes taking her time leaving us physically, but in some sort of
hurry to see the other side before her earthly time expires. My mother has always been an
impatient woman.
Im scared. Thats whats at the heart of
this. Your mother is supposed to remember your past. She was there before you. While you
were picking dandelions, she was balancing checkbooks and washing your clothes.
Im supposed to learn from her...ah, there it is
again. What am I supposed to learn? How to let go? How to be in the moment? The past
doesnt matter. Its gone. The future may never happen. Just stay here. Breathe.
And answer the questions.
by Kelly McCoy

Soulful Passages
Unpublished Writers
top
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